Someday when the rain stops
and you can't write for shit and
your eyes sting from the brightness in the room
and the lock on the door keeps fooling you with madness.
Someday,
when the tv goes to static and you know you're in for it
and when home is hardly here and neither there
and you look to the phone on the wall for an answer
but the ringer broke three weeks
ago and suddenly you're writing
and the words, though seldom spelled correctly,
are magnificent, in the strangest of ways, and you accept that
there is only dead truth in everything they say.
This place will be so crowded and everyone will smile and laugh at how
the time flies, that’s when
you’ll know that all of this work is killing us,
it’s killing me, you're killing me with kindness.
And then the rain will start again but this time, the town will flood
to the roof and tragedy will strike in the form of a blessing
and I'll row over to you, to your house.